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The Pavilion’s murmur wavered as Lord Edwin Stormcrest stepped away from Aedrianna and crossed the main floor toward the registration counters. His armor’s steady rhythm against marble drew glances from more than a few of the gathered nobles, their conversations dipping briefly before resuming with new whispers woven between them.

A few of the attendants behind the registration desks exchanged uncertain looks — the sort reserved for those who were unaccustomed to being addressed quite so directly. The clerk before him, a young woman in a navy vest embroidered with the Thales crest, froze only a moment under the Ryken’s sharp tone.

[color=#D6A420]“L–Lord Marcher Edwin Stormcrest,”[/color] she repeated quickly, eyes darting between his armor and her registry slate. [color=#D6A420]“Of course, my lord. Swordsmanship— ah— yes, that category is still open.”[/color]

Behind her, two assistants bent over a glowing array of sigils that organized participant entries, their hands trembling slightly as they hurried to record his information. The magi-light above their station flickered in rhythm with their nervous energy.

The nearby nobles, unable to resist, began trading hushed commentary.
[color=#E3CBA3]“Ryke nobility here? How fascinating.”[/color]
[color=#E3CBA3]“He’s a Marcher Lord, isn’t he?”[/color]
[color=#E3CBA3]“No, no — the way he carries himself, he must be one of those mercenary-knights they hire in the borderlands.”[/color]
Polished laughter followed, but not loudly enough for him to hear.

Edwin’s mention of “Duchy folk” and “physical ability” earned one or two stiff smiles from the judges’ aides standing near the dais. Lady Avelyne Duross herself — the culinary chemist seated closest to the end of the table — glanced his way, expression unreadable, one brow faintly raised as if curious whether the knight’s arrogance was genuine or deliberate performance.

Across the hall, Noelle Nishi stepped forward in her own line. The crowd made space for her without quite meaning to — not out of disdain, but simple fascination. Her soft voice, the flowing lines of her kimono, and the faint shimmer of sea-colored light in her hair drew eyes even among the nobles too proud to stare openly.

Her politeness was disarming, and the attendant registering her name responded with almost flustered courtesy.
[color=#E8C468]“Ah, a songstress — yes, of course, Miss Nishi. Welcome to the Exhibition! Music will be performing on the mid-hall stage. Please follow the luminescent guides when the announcement is made.”[/color]

As her name was etched into the luminous registry, her category — Music, Vocal Artistry — joined the swirling constellation of runes above the central display. A few of the nearby artisans turned at the word songstress, curiosity flashing briefly before returning to their work.

But even amid the chatter and motion, tension buzzed near the judges’ table. A steward whispered urgently to one of the aides; the older man’s face was pinched with worry.
[color=#B8E5E8]“Still no word from the fifth,”[/color] he murmured. [color=#B8E5E8]“Lord Thales insists we begin on time, but without a full panel—”[/color]

The aide frowned, lowering her voice.
[color=#B8E5E8]“He said he’ll find a replacement. Just keep it quiet until he does.”[/color]

Their conversation disappeared beneath the swell of new arrivals. The Pavilion was beginning to fill — artisans displaying prototypes, musicians testing tones, cooks heating their enchanted stoves. Laughter mingled with mana’s hum, though an undercurrent of unease threaded through it all, like a wire pulled too tight.

One by one, names continued to glow and fade across the registry board: [color=#D63D20]Stormcrest[/color], [color=#20D3D6]Nishi[/color], Belmonte.

And as the clerks scurried to catch up with the growing list, a faint chime rang through the hall — a reminder that the opening ceremony was meant to begin soon.

Still, the fifth chair at the judges’ table remained empty, its pale gold frame catching every flicker of light like a silent question no one dared to ask aloud.

The Pavilion’s noise deepened as the first wave of contestants completed registration. The faint ringing of mana chimes signaled attendants to begin directing participants toward their assigned staging areas. The Exhibition hadn’t even officially started, yet the Pavilion already pulsed with nervous energy — movement, chatter, and the quiet click of crystalline pens etching last-minute names onto glowing panels.

[color=#D6A420]“Ah— yes, my lord,”[/color] the clerk said quickly, forcing a smile. [color=#D6A420]“The swordsmanship entrants are being gathered near the western promenade — that way, if you please. My colleague will escort you.”[/color]

The attendant swallowed hard, clearly aware of who he was dealing with.
[color=#E8C468]“R–right this way, my lord.”[/color]

The western wing of the Pavilion opened into a wide, sand-dusted ring bordered by low mana barriers. Along its perimeter, a few other contestants were already preparing. The air there was less perfumed and far more charged — the scent of oil, steel, and competition.

One of the duelists, a tall woman in ceremonial red armor, was testing the weight of a blade that glowed faintly with bound fire. Another, a lean swordsman in cream-colored attire, performed small warm-up cuts, the edge of his rapier whistling audibly through the air. Both paused as Edwin approached, their eyes flicking briefly his way — not hostile, but assessing.

From the shadows near the far end, a gruff voice called,
[color=#33C27F]“Another noble, eh? Hope he’s better than the last one who strutted through here.”[/color]
The speaker — a broad-shouldered mercenary with a scar across his chin — spat to the side and began strapping his gauntlets tighter.

The attendant, sensing tension, cleared his throat nervously and bowed out of the way, leaving Edwin to take in the competitors as the mana barriers shimmered faintly, waiting for use.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the Pavilion, Noelle Nishi was guided toward the east hall — the Performing Arts Wing.

Here, the atmosphere was very different: warm lights glowed along the edges of a circular stage, and the air smelled faintly of incense and polished crystal. Rows of instruments lined the walls — everything from stringed harps and lutes to experimental magi-harmonics and wind-craft pipes powered by mana breathers.

Performers milled about, tuning, stretching, humming — each surrounded by their own small bubble of self-importance.

A pair of attendants waved her forward.
[color=#D6965E]“Music competitors will take turns on the mid-stage. Warm-ups are permitted until the judges signal readiness,”[/color] one of them explained briskly, clearly repeating a rehearsed line for the hundredth time that evening.

Nearby, a tall elven woman in an elaborate gown was practicing scales that shimmered with light as she sang — her voice magically harmonized with itself, leaving faint trails of gold in the air. Another contestant, a short, sharp-eyed man with dark curls and a silver flute, watched her with irritation, tapping the mouthpiece against his palm.

When he noticed Noelle being escorted in, he gave a lopsided grin.
[color=#87C3E3]“New blood? Try not to make the rest of us look bad too early.”[/color]
His tone was playful but edged with condescension.

The elven singer, overhearing, simply arched a brow and resumed her glowing scales, the air humming faintly around her.

The attendants, oblivious to the undercurrent, smiled politely.
[color=#D6965E]“Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Nishi. The first round will begin shortly — once all judges are in attendance.”[/color]